Deserving
by Plia
Summary: There's a world of emotions in Dean's voice and he wants to cry because he doesn't deserve that. Not now. Not after everything.


**What can I say? Not long enough and kind of rambly but I felt like a little bit of Hurt!Sam and Worried!Dean. Actually I almost always feel like that.**

**I own nothing.**

It's getting hard to breathe. His chest is heavy and it feels like there's sand in his throat. He tries to put a hand on his chest but his arms are heavy too. His whole body feels too much, too disconnected, too wrong. It's not so bad though cause he can feel the leather of the Impala's seat and it's worn and warm and familiar.

They're driving fast. He knows because he can feel the engine hum all the way up through his bones. And that's familiar too but they haven't driven this fast in a long time. Not this fast. Not this quiet.

He half wants to ask Dean to turn on some music but he knows it'll be some rock song he's heard a million time over and Dean will sing along and he'll have to pretend to be annoyed. He tries to ask anyway.

"It's going to be okay Sammy."

It's not the answer to his request. And Dean doesn't sound right. Too soft. Too gentle. Dean doesn't talk like that to him anymore. Not to anyone but especially not to him. He wonders why he's talking like that now. He can't ask. The words get stuck in his throat and won't come out properly. It just sounds like noises and Dean won't understand.

"Easy Sam. Just try breathe okay. In and out. Just hang on."

They go faster. And faster. He can practically feel the world flooding past them. He sags in the seat. The seat he inherited from Dean when Dean inherited the one behind the wheel. That was a long time ago. Back when monsters were simple and had a straightforward how-to kill manual and Dad picked the where and when and Dean still laughed like he meant it and he wanted so badly to have a different life because he hadn't figured out that this was where he belonged.

His head rolls back and he's too big for this space but he's always been more comfortable here than any motel bed.

"Hey, hey. Don't fall asleep alright? I need you to stay awake."

Dean sounds worried. Really worried. Dean needs him. His head rolls in his brother's direction and his visions fuzzy but he knows this picture so well it doesn't matter. Dean is in profile, hands clenched around the steering wheel, gaze dead ahead. If he looks like he sounds then his jaw will be locked and he'll be breathing sharply through his nose.

He wishes he could get a proper breath.

"I know it hurts Sam. Just hang on a little longer. Why don't you tell me a story? Tell me something nerdy."

He chokes a strangled laugh because something must be _really_ wrong if Dean's volunteering himself to listen to one of Sam's stories.

"'member when…" He trails off, his breath coming up short. It's okay, Dean will get it.

"I remember when we were kids and you had that friend. Billy something-or-other." Billy Matthews. He remembers. "His mom was such a royal bitch. Every time I went around to pick you up she used to look at us like we were filth. Like her royal highness couldn't bear the sight of us. I didn't like her looking at you like that."

He needs this. Dean talking, him listening, the rumble of the Impala – home – along an open stretch of road.

"I found this case and suggested it to Dad. He thought it looked good, only it was a couple of states over and we had to pull you out of school. You were so upset and I always felt bad over it but I didn't like the way she looked at you Sammy."

He didn't really remember that part. Remembered leaving. Remembered being mad. Blood bubbled up in his throat and it hurt so so much. He was cold and tired and it hurt.

"Stay awake. Eyes open." Dean's voice is sharp. Urgent.

He blinked slowly. He wanted to scratch at his throat and let in the air so he could scream with the pain but he didn't want to worry his brother. Didn't want to make him mad. He'd been doing that a lot lately. He was really tired of being the reason Dean didn't smile very much anymore and preferred a bottle of whiskey alone instead of a beer shared on the hood of the Impala.

Maybe it would be okay if he shut his eyes and fell asleep. Maybe Dean could be okay then. Maybe he'd know he was sorry.

"Hey, you listening to me? Sammy." He feels a hand on his arm, tight and solid.

His chest heaves and he's panicking with the not-breathing. Something's coming apart in his chest, splintering and cracking and he wants it to stop.

"Dean." He doesn't realise it comes from his mouth until the hand on his arm squeezes and he sounds like a child but he doesn't care. He sounds like he used to when all he had was Dean and Dean could always make it all better. And he's not being strong anymore and he's not brave or grown-up or anything else his brother should respect but he doesn't care because he hurts, he hurts so bad, and the only thing he wants right now is for Dean to make it all better.

"Listen to me. You're going to be fine. You're gonna be just fine. I gotcha, okay? Just hang on." There's a world of emotions in Dean's voice and he wants to cry because he doesn't deserve that. Not now. Not after everything. Everything he's done. Dean deserves better than him.

"Sammy please."

His eyes roll until he finds Dean and a smile slips drunkenly across his face. He doesn't deserve this but he needs it. Needs it like he needs the air he's not getting and he's too selfish to fall away and leave Dean to live a better life. He needs his brother.

He'll just have to be better.


End file.
